The best way to uncover the truth about what really happens in bloodsports is to go undercover, to pretend to be a supporter. I have done this for many years.

On Monday, January 3rd 1983 I attended the meet of the Dulverton West Foxhounds at Gunn on the Barnstaple side of their country. This turned out to be one of the most dramatic days of all my undercover work.

There was torrential rain at the meet. Terry Beeney, the Huntsman, was suffering from a severe bout of flu. Instead of hunting hounds he accompanied the terrierman, Stan Richards, and myself in the Land Rover.

From the meet we went for a stirrup cup to a nearby farm. The downpour continued. Hounds were taken to draw woodland towards Hutcherton whilst we circled and waited by the woods between Harford and Birch. In time a rider approached down the steep grass slopes. We learned that the fox was to ground in the same large complex where a few days previously they had killed three.

We drove as near as possible but even so had a long climb to the earth taking with us the terriers Cricket and Midge. The riders had dismounted and blocked some of the many entrances but Terry asked for them to be cleared. Midge was entered to the earth. On Terry's instructions we kept well back to allow the fox to bolt but no fox appeared.

The earth was massive and the fox was constantly moving up and down the underground passages as the terriers engaged him in sporadic fights. The supporters tried to help by listening at the various entrances however no sooner had the sounds of combat been confirmed at one site and digging commenced than it promptly moved to another.

The mounted field became bored with waiting and galloped off with the hounds to hunt elsewhere. The digging party were told that if they did reach the fox they should holloa and the riders would return with the hounds.

Terry went to put Cricket in. Knowing that dog's fearsome reputation for killing he wanted the bleeper collar used. This would enable the dog to be tracked and the fox dug out before it was killed.

However such devices commonly malfunction due to the abundance of mud and moisture at a dig. Accordingly it surprised no-one when despite trying several combinations of batteries this one would neither bleep nor click.

Cricket went in with no bleeper collar. He quickly bayed the fox and Terry rapidly dug down to the sounds of fighting. The fox was uncovered. Terry made a grab for the scruff of his neck but he was too slow. The fox bit his hand. Other diggers rallied to help. They tried to prise the fox out of its partial tomb using the iron bar but to no avail. The fox squealed like mad as the bar was levered against its body.

Cricket was barely visible. Further down the tunnel, behind the fox, he savagely attacked its brush and hindquarters. Under this combined assault the fox flopped over exhausted.

Terry said that with so little life in it they would sadly have to kill it (they had the gun to hand). However he gained renewed hope when a few moments later he prodded the fox with the iron bar and it snapped at him.

The earth was further cleared. Eventually by jamming the fox's head back with his spade Terry managed to safely grab the scruff of its neck. He then pulled the struggling victim out grabbing it also by its brush.

Twisting the fox on to its back he bowed its head to its backside. Out of sheer fear the fox urinated dousing its hind legs and brush. It was then dropped into a waiting sack held open by Stan and the others. "Call the hunt!" ordered Terry. Everyone holloaed. When after waiting some five minutes or more neither hounds nor riders appeared a youngster was despatched down the hillside to try and find them. The fox was grunting, kicking and struggling in the sack. Terry warned Stan to keep a tight grip on it.

Terry was in high spirits now and told the diggers to expect to see some real fun. He claimed that he had seen similar bagged foxes used many times by the Cheshire Forest Hunt.

The hounds were a long time arriving and Stan was having great difficulty restraining the fox. Eventually the pack appeared running up the grass slope beside the covert that contained the earth. I feared that like the previous spring when I had seen a pregnant vixen thrown live to hounds Terry would again bar me from taking pictures.

I hung back trying to be inconspicuous. However I was noticed and then I judged it would be best to go right in. I did so with camera ready but concealed. I was near to Terry. Stan was higher up the slope holding the fox in the sack. The hounds approaching from below were being urged on by the mounted field.

Terry shouted "Release the fox Stan! Release it now!" but Stan was fumbling to undo the knot around the sack. With my back to Terry I moved towards Stan and prepared my camera. The hounds were closing rapidly yet the fox was still confined. Terry called to his Joint Master, Bertie Hill, to check the pack. Eventually, after frantic efforts Stan opened the sack and shook the fox out. I pressed my camera shutter button.

The fox was alone, exposed, defenceless, and completely bewildered. It was muddied, wet, soaked in its own urine and had blood streaming from the wounds to its hindquarters and tail caused by Cricket. It shook itself, saw and heard the baying hounds just 50 yards behind and set off, still confused, up the hill.

This was the most important photographic evidence of the my first two years of undercover work. Jeering footfollowers sent the battered fox on his way. The entire mounted field including both Joint Masters hooted and screamed with excitement as they galloped past me. They had all seen exactly what had happened.

Desperate to return to its earth the fox turned right-handed but was headed away by the terriermen. It tried again in a wider left-handed circle. It reached the wood but as it crept through the undergrowth to its sanctuary the hunters moved in beating on foot to thwart it.

With every escape avenue blocked the fox swung about and set off towards Birch farm. Bleeding and soaked in urine it emitted a scent that even the worst hounds in the world could track. On and on it went twisting and turning as best it could but it had suffered crippling injuries. It made one last vain attempt to lose its scent on the road before being caught in a garden. In stark contrast to the fox the field had had a most enjoyable run.

We had lost touch with the hunt and only learnt of the final outcome from Bertie Hill when we found the hounds back in their box at about 3.15p.m. The hunt staff were immensely pleased with their day. They felt sure that catching their fox in the open would encourage the hounds and improve their drive.

Terry had earlier informed me that scared foxes leave no scent so I questioned him as to this incident. "Surely," I said "when the fox was in the sack it was terrified so why when it was tipped out did it leave such a strong scent?"

He offered two reasons: firstly that it was 'blooding' i.e. dripping blood from the injuries inflicted by Cricket; secondly that it was soaked in urine.

I learnt that one or both of these factors are essential for the successful release of bagged foxes. Usually the fox will be 'blooding' anyway from the inevitable terrier bites. If it is not it is apparently the practice to cut it. As for urinating the foxes are either squeezed or have their stomachs gently stood on to provoke this. Connoisseurs of this technique assured me that dog foxes and vixens differ in their willingness to oblige.

On our return to the Land Rover I noticed that no-one was carrying the sack. I enquired of Stan as to its whereabouts. He exchanged knowing looks with Terry and told me that it had been dumped in the earth. Presumably it is poor hunting form for a hunt to be found with a sack reeking of fox and full of fox hairs.

The above is based on an account in Outfoxed by Mike Huskisson, published in 1983.

In contrast, Horse and Hound, February 4th 1983, carried the following suitably sanitised account of the days events for the Dulverton West Foxhounds: